


Discord

by LegendaryBard



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, a hearty helping of angst and insecurities, this is just Angst okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does a discord orb feel like?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Offense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long, hard journey

Genji chokes and gasps, fights through the sudden cool, dark sensation. He is suddenly a decade younger, a decade newer. Old thoughts- old feelings- bubble, that he has long since pushed past.

His own skin repulses him. The metal, his flesh- he wants to pick it away, rip himself apart. Every inch of him is an abomination. He’s trapped, in this metal cage- his lungs struggle to pull in breath, but he can only think of the pain, the betrayal. How he should have told Doctor Ziegler to just let him go and let him die. He recalled the helplessness, the anger, the pain, the shame- the disgust, at being something lesser than human.

Anger at Hanzo, anger at himself. It feels like he’s swallowing glass. He can’t feel his limbs.

In despair, Genji attempts to reach out for the lessons Zenyatta taught him- but his calm metal face is murky and cloudy, and Genji cannot recall what he looks like. His voice is too fuzzy, his peace and calm ripped to shreds by the terror of what he’s become and the blind rage at his fall from grace. The cyborg’s comforts have been wrested from his grasp, and he is floating, lost, in athe dark abyss. In his own self-hatred, in his own loss, in his own helpless hurt and anger.

_ Help me, master,  _ he wails fearfully into the void, desperate for his cool touch, for his calm voice, for his unshakable strength.  _ Please, please, I can’t do this again, I can’t do this without you. _

The void does not answer him.

-

McCree stiffens on instinct- his eyelids slam shut, and his grip on the Peacekeeper tightens. 

There are other kids in the Deadlock gang- grungy boys of no more than fifteen, that think being in a gang in the rural armpit of New Mexico is cool. They drink and smoke and run wild, and McCree joins them. His mother doesn’t know- it’s the first lie on top of many, and the seriousness of that one first step makes his stomach twist. 

Regret is his strongest emotion. He should have stayed with his mother. He should’ve told the others in Deadlock they were being manipulated, that they would turn down roads of murder, of prostitution, of drugs, of blood and dust and sweat and fear. He should have known when Gabriel plucked him- a boy of seventeen- from the ashes, that it would be for no good cause. Deadlock should have taught him to keep away from Blackwatch. 

He regrets never having time to be the puppy-faced Jesse- He regrets being fifteen and stupid, regrets that he’d taken his first life before he was old enough to drive. Regrets he only told Mama what he was a part of, what he’d done, after Overwatch was disbanded. Regretted he didn’t hold her tighter when she cried.

The cowboy grits his teeth, relaxes his grip on the Peacekeeper, and presses on. He will not be held back. Jesse McCree will be a pawn of no one. 

-

Pharah almost doesn’t notice it at first- it comes in faintly, like a whisper in one ear. The thoughts are nothing she is not accustomed to. 

Resentment. Towards her mother. It grows and builds in her chest, until it feels like a physical weight just past her ribcage. She has to stop moving, brows furrowed as she lightly touches her chest through her armor.  _ Mother never believed in me. She never believed I would be good enough for Overwatch.  _ The realization hurts- Pharah struggles, confused and overwhelmed. Why is she thinking this now? She’s not supposed to think about this anymore. She had resolved it with her mother- Ana said it was because she wanted to protect her.

_ It was a lie. You could do more to protect them. You could be stronger, faster, smarter. She thinks you’re a failure. You are a failure.  _ Pharah struggles to focus, through the malicious thoughts, but rationalizes through a furrowed brow and steadied breath.

Thoughts is all they are. Just thoughts.

She jump-jets, brilliant lights flaring. Her rocket launcher is heavy in her grip. But she will not falter from her duty.

-

Reaper suddenly gets a crushing, overwhelming feeling- his Hellfire shotguns bark once, but not a second time. He attempts to push through the weakness, but it’s intrusive. It doesn’t stop, so Reaper has to- laying a clawed hand on the wall and trying to catch his breath.

Regret slams into him, accompanied by a warring backhand of anger. Blackwatch had been necessary. Hurting those people were necessary. The accusations of sadist, of murderer, of savage, all that had been flung his way, he had walked through without a problem. He was not thin-skinned, he was ready and willing to do anything and everything that needed to be done for the sake of the world and Overwatch. He did what needed to be done. But now… He wasn’t so sure.

Was it worth it? Was any of it worth it? If he had just been more subtle, if he had followed orders and if he hadn’t gone too far with Blackwatch, he would still be human. Jack and he would still be friends- the thought sends a pang of discomfort through him. His claws dig into his palms, dripping a sludgy black fluid that passed for blood. He’s almost panting now. He’s started to fuzz, smoke drifting from his gloves and behind his mask.  _ Keep it together, Gabriel. _

He wants to stop thinking, but he can’t. He knows it’s Morrison’s fault- he has known ever since he was promoted instead of Gabriel, ever since that fateful day in the Swiss Headquarters- but all he can think about is that it’s his own. 

-

76 is plagued with doubt. With those  _ what-ifs  _ and  _ you could’ves.  _ It comes with being old. He’s always been riddled with doubt and knows exactly how to effectively and efficiently squash misgivings before he has time to dwell on it and chew on the thoughts. He twinges a little as the onrushing  _ you could’ve done better  _ and the  _ you’re a failure, a fraud, you’re old, you should have died in the Swiss explosion,  _ and so on pours forth. But he can deal with it. 76 always has.

He’s less equipped than he thinks.

A deluge of thoughts hits him.  _ His fault Overwatch was disbanded. His fault everything came to ruin. And Gabriel…  _ if he had stepped down, if his fucking pride hadn’t demanded he step up to be Strike-Commander, if he’d offered the position to Gabriel, Overwatch could’ve run smoothly, efficiently. Gabriel would still be his friend. Overwatch would be a strong, global presence, as it had been for so long.

He can’t take the onrush of thoughts for that long without bursting like a dam under too much pressure. He teared up, balled his fists, slammed them against the nearest wall. Cursed under his breath. Cursed himself, cursed Gabriel, cursed Overwatch for letting itself be ripped apart. In the end, this all weighs on him and his failure to be better to Overwatch, better to Gabriel.

If only, if only, if only.

-

Mondatta.

It’s rare that Mondatta crosses Tracer’s thoughts. It’s rare any of her failures come to mind. She has a positive outlook- keep running, and don’t slow down to dwell on stuff in the past. She can move forward and backward in time, and it’s taught her that you gotta keep ticking forward, no matter how bad things look. She was like this even before her accident, though. She always was cheerful in flight, and was known for it. 

The clang Mondatta made- clear across the entire crowd, across the sniper’s bark- comes vividly to mind. She remembers his lights flickering out, remembers the boneless flop of his hand. The scream of outrage and pain from the crowd, the bodyguards who looked absolutely shattered. The sudden feeling of disjointed weightlessness when she saw what had happened, what Tracer had let happen. The sudden sensation of crashing back to reality, the realization and impact of her own mistake. 

Widowmaker’s twisted, sickening smile. Her mocking “ma cheri”, that set Tracer’s blood aboil, even while a pit of hopelessness and helplessness grew just beneath her chronal accelerator. Even when moving back and forward in time, she couldn’t stop it. Widowmaker had killed Mondatta, a global icon of peace, and Tracer had failed.

She could blame Widowmaker.

She could blame Mondatta.

But right now, as she wiped budding tears from underneath her goggles, she blamed herself. 


	2. Defense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but despite that

In an instant, Bastion is back to the battlefield.

Other units all around him. The repetitive shredding of gunfire. Blood and pierced armor, corpses falling on both sides. Glints of brilliant blue, of towering figures in armor screaming in desperation, in pain. Anger, on behalf of the Bastions, an entire row decimated in a single slash of one of the armored titan’s hammers, a hot coil of flame lancing through the air so close Bastion could feel the heat radiating off of it. Fire in distance, fighters in the sky, raining explosive death. The darkness of the night sky, so much smoke and fire choking the air that the stars didn’t even twinkle through. 

Terror shakes Bastion- subroutines and directives are ignored, and he swivels around, hunting wildly for a threat that isn’t there. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. This isn’t something he can fight with a minigun. 

But he feels it. He is there, again. He remembers in vivid, technicolor detail.

Bastion finds the closest corner, setting up in his sentry mode. His armored plates rattled, as the vision of fire and death flickers over his image of the real world. He can’t tell the difference anymore- he shoots off round after round wildly, terrified something is coming back, terrified he’s back in the middle of the war.

Not even Ganymede is here to ground him.

-

Hanzo’s arrow slips out of his fingers. 

_ It is your fault Genji is like this. _

Hanzo shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought- but it starts weighing on him, gradually. The repetitive motion of his bow gives him nothing to think about but the issue, and his mind keeps persistently turning back to Genji.

He should’ve rationalized with Genji. He should’ve talked to him more seriously, warning him how his behavior wouldn’t be tolerated. Should’ve extended the hand of mercy. Genji was his brother, and Hanzo… Hanzo was responsible for what he’d become. Not man, not machine. A pitiful creature dependant on cybernetics for breathing and movement, but with blood moving through its veins.

He remembered the young, carefree man he’d left behind- Green hair, long scarf, his voice saying playful  _ anija~  _ and his obnoxious and occasionally lewd jokes. He was a stereotypical younger brother- His lightness, his livelihood, had balanced Hanzo’s stress at his own responsibility and the burdens he’d had to shoulder.

Genji had aged too quickly. Been forced to adapt to his new body. Been forced to lose his title, his limbs, his honor, his pride.

_ It’s your fault. _

The only indication of the internal struggle in Hanzo’s mind is the slight shake of his fingers as he nocks another arrow.

-

“Stupid hunk of junk!” Jamison hurls the insult and limps behind cover- He feels immediately, physically ill, although he can’t pinpoint where exactly he feels sick. In his head, in his stomach. Dizzy and twisty and turny, nauseated like he’s been jolted around and whiplashed. 

He strains his ears faintly for the sound of heavy footsteps, for Roadhog’s jingling. Roadhog would save him. Roadhog always took Junkrat out of trouble.

_ You’re a nuisance. An annoyance. He’s finally decided to leave you behind, for good. Why did you ever think he would stay with someone like you?  _

Junkrat immediately grabs a lock of yellow-white hair, hunching over and starting to tug violently. The pain in his scalp distracts him. Those horrible thoughts, he needs to chase them out, chase them out. Junkrat’s fine, fine, fine, fine, and these thoughts won’t get to him, because all that matters is the crack BOOM of explosions and how powerful and pretty and destructive they are, how big they can get.

Junkrat is not lonely. Junkrat is not small. Junkrat is big and powerful and Roadhog is going to come help him and save him like he always does. Roadhog is reliable and dependant and comforting and he always has Junkrat’s back, even when he says something cruel or when Roadhog tells him to shut up, because they’re friends, and Roadhog wouldn’t leave him to die here, because Roadhog is nice.

Junkrat didn’t realize he’d been whispering the words out loud until he felt tears brush his lips- That, if nothing else, broke him down. He struggled to breathe through the choking, oppressive feelings, and this time there was no Roadhog to comfort him.

-

Mei murmurs a soft expression of shock.

It comes over her like a shadow over a cloud- A vague, lingering feeling, like a swarm of insects is buzzing around her and she can’t see them. 

Frosted glass, brushed by a hand- The preserved, stark face of one of her colleagues. The difficult choice, cryogenic freezing. He looked to be at peace, but Mei was simply unnerved- he had died a long, long time ago. Years and years and years ago, but he was perfectly preserved. How could he- and the rest of her team- be so perfectly in tact, but not resuscitated? 

It was a dice toss, a gamble, whether or not they would live when they froze themselves. They had no choice, none of them did, it was their best chance.

Regret felt like she was being hollowed on the inside- like someone had bored a hole in her chest, and something- happiness, but not quite- was pouring out, leaving her empty and cold. So cold. 

Maybe they could’ve held out longer. Maybe the storm would’ve stopped and they could properly radio for help. Maybe Mei wouldn’t be the only survivor, if she had just convinced the rest of them to hold out a few days more, or she had re-calibrated the equations on the cryogenic freezing process. Maybe her team would still be with her, and she could’ve stopped all these problems before they got any worse. Global warming, a second omnic crisis- Everything had gotten so much more terrible while she was locked away in her frozen prison. 

Mei wiped her eyes with her sleeve, but determinedly levered the endothermic blaster.

She had lost one team, and she wasn’t going to lose another.

-

Torbjorn was a genius.

He knew it, too. He had signed contracts with major corporations, made deals, and designed several of the weapons for Overwatch. He’d built and designed great things, and one of his pride and joys was currently snapping off bullets in someone else’s direction.

Plunging back into his memories is like a light suddenly being flipped on, or a plug being jammed in a socket. He’s not there one moment, and in the next, he is. 

_ A clean shot through someone else’s foot- A punch to his face, his grip on controls, the slump of the gigantic machine on an even bigger warpath. _

His creations have been misapplied, abused, bastardized and corrupted until the point where he no longer recognizes them as his own. They have been used as tools, for angry men to lash out at someone, anyone, with a might that is not theirs to possess. Torbjorn regrets not hoarding his machines and designs, regrets the fact he has so easily let them slip into the grip of evil men.

It angers him rather than saddens him, and he grits his teeth, the next slam of his hammer down on the turret a little bit too hard. 

_ Slender man, white-blond hair.  _

_ Boklovo.  _

The Titans weren’t meant to be weapons. 

They shouldn’t have existed at all. 

-

Another perfect headshot.

A burbling voice, kind and French, murmured in her ear. She hadn’t heard this voice come to her in a long time.

It’s Gerard’s.

_ You’ve gotten a lot better at that.  _ He says to her, in the sweet, lilting voice that she doesn’t deserve.  _ I wish you could have joined Overwatch. You are very talented, my love.  _

“Shut up,” She mutters out loud. “I got rid of you a long time ago.” 

_ That’s fine,  _ he says to her. He’s so gentle, always so gentle. His accent rolls peacefully over her, smooth as silk but prickling the same way it does when a spider crawls across your skin.  _ I should have been more careful to keep you safe, my dearest.  _ The sudden sadness that passes across his tongue makes her eye twitch, and she takes another shot. A miss. 

“You ‘ave been gone so long. Why do you bother me now?” 

_ I wanted to remind you that I’m never gone.  _ He says. His voice is more fragile now, like ice ready to splinter, or the first strand of a web that has yet to be completed.  _ I wanted to remind you… Talon can’t completely wipe my Amelie away. And while she remains, so do I.  _

Widowmaker feels a chill shoot up her spine- sharp, uncomfortable,  _ creepy.  _ She hasn’t felt anything like it. Not while she is the way she is now. 

_ Don’t let it trouble you, my love.  _

She can practically see his sad smile.

_ Just know you can never completely forget who you once were.  _


	3. Tanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you're still here

D.Va feels something odd- something she doesn’t normally feel. Like she’d gulped down soda too quick, queasy and uncomfortable. She suddenly feels trapped inside her mech- the area is too small, and she has to resist the urge to suddenly eject herself and call for Mercy or somebody.

She flies away in the mech, finding a safe distance from the roar of combat, and takes a moment to sort out jagged, broken thoughts. It’s like swimming through shards of glass before she finally appropriately identifies the sensation.

Anxiety.

She had felt this before- ascending the stage for her first _StarCraft_ competition. The crowd’s sight burning into her back, keenly aware they were all waiting for her to fail. She had heard the complaints before- they were allowing a little girl into a pro gaming tournament, that she was a woman and she shouldn’t be here, that her opponent was a man and she couldn’t possibly beat him. They were all thirsting, hungering for her failure, and in that terrifying moment…

She felt just like a little girl. Shamed and lost and confused, flustered and reaching for false confidence. She had stumbled, made a mistake, nearly lost it for herself.

D.Va had felt… Awful.

The same way she was right now.

But back then, she had heard the _roar_ of support in the crowd- fans of her livestream, _her_ fans, chanting her name and clamoring for her victory.

“ _D.Va! D.Va! D.Va!”_

She turned the mech around, flying back into the fight. Anger surges back into her, along with a flood of courage- She has her fanbase backing her up.

“I’m gonna shoot you down!”

-

Reinhardt had to bury three of his friends.

Gabriel. Jack. Ana.

People whom he had come to love and cherish, to fight alongside with a beer and a smile. He’d mourned them for so many years- Ana, as the bitterest and longest. Jack and Gabriel, for not sensing the tension between the two, and for not being in the Swiss headquarters when the unfortunate incident occurred. His shield would’ve been a saving grace that protected them all.

Now, though.

Now he knew that it was all a lie.

Reinhardt had been so _delighted_ when Jack had turned out to be alive- He’d nearly crushed the man with a tight hug. They’d gone out for drinks, Reinhardt had cried in relief and delight, and the celebration lasted as long as Jack had tolerated it. Reinhardt’s resent had only built up after weeks and months after, where he reflected on how he’d mourned for nothing. How Jack had let him believe he was dead and broken in the wreckage, how they couldn’t find his body, how Reinhardt had hoped he would come back, but he hadn’t, even after an entire decade of sadness and pain and denial…

And _Ana._ She was just as bad. Worse, even. She had simply left- which somehow hurt more than knowing she had died. Now that she was back, her memory and voice punctured old wounds and grew relief in Reinhardt simultaneously. His thoughts on her were… Conflicted. Painful.

He didn’t let these feelings be known- these conflicting wars of relief and anger, of bitterness from being left behind and toyed with. The delight at knowing they were still okay, the hurt at knowing they hadn’t bothered to tell him.

“We could use some cover!” Jack’s voice hollers, snapping Reinhardt out of his reverie. “Reinhardt! _Reinhardt!”_

Gunfire sounds, harsh and clattering. Jack’s voice pitches in desperation, in concern, in fear, as the enemy takes ground and Reinhardt is not spurred into action.

There isn’t so much as a hint of his great blue shield until the agonized screams begin.

-

Roadhog doesn’t have regrets.

No one is allowed to peek into his mind. No one is allowed to make him feel anything other than what he already feels- nothing. His soul has been scrubbed raw by radiation and dust- There is no conflict, no inner war, nothing but the empty road and the roar of his bike. He has never made a decision worth thinking back on and regretting. Not in his youth, not in his adulthood, not at the age he is now ( he feels too goddamn _old_ to be an adult, even though he’s not elderly ) and certainly not at the very moment.

Roadhog has lived more in forty years than most people in a lifetime. It lends itself to not caring. He doesn’t care about his choices, doesn’t care about anything at all. No people to care for, no choices, no places, no things. He will feel- and has felt- nothing his entire life, and definitely not anything he didn’t want to feel.

All the same, he feels a prickle, a light touch, but he clenches his jaw and ignores it. If Junkrat has taught him anything, it’s how to aggressively ignore everything that bothered him.

_Junkrat._

Oh, God, no.

Where was the scrawny little piece of shit? Roadhog’s head snaps around wildly, a little too frantic, especially for him. His grip on the hook tightens, and he casts his gaze out towards the enemy, and the war currently raging below. _Hook the slender one in the back, shoot her to scrap, draw back and reel in your hook, then reposition because they’ll know where you are-_

Junkrat’s not here. Where is he? Where _is_ he? Panic claws at Roadhog’s stomach, trying to tear its way up his throat, and he tells himself to calm the _fuck_ down because the scrawny little asshole can help himself. Junkrat is annoying and Junkrat seems like he’s never been in any kind of civilization before, but he’s not _helpless._ He can take care of himself.

Roadhog could picture his lean, horselike face- twisted with fear, a trickle of blood running down his temple, terrified as he squared off in an impossible battle. He was dependant on Roadhog, and Roadhog had grown… Adapted into being his protector. He _liked_ hooking the goddamn scrawny fuck out of trouble, no matter how much the little bastard got on his nerves.

Instead of hooking the healer standing behind, Roadhog turns around and lumbers as quickly as his legs can carry him back towards the base, desperately needing to know if Junkrat is okay.

-

Winston is no stranger to self-doubt. He feels it constantly- doubt about his classification as a scientist, doubt about his choices in the world, doubt about recalling Overwatch. Doubt about himself, if he should exist, if he should’ve stayed on the moon base. Nervousness about equations and decisions and paperwork- He wasn’t a leader, but was treated as such. He’s expected to steer the ship, but he’s an indecisive nautical engineer. It’s unfair, so unfair. He has so many doubts and worries and _difficulties_ he has to hurdle over.

Doubt about Winston. The other Winston. His inspiration, the closest thing he had to a father.

These doubts become so loud, so foggy in his head- Swirling together like a vortex, twisting out of his control no matter how hard he digs his heels in and no matter how much he wants it all to desperately stop. Winston isn’t good at managing his thoughts, or his areas- he’s messy and reclusive and primitive, apelike and unscientific. Winston- the _human_ Winston- would be disappointed in him, and that, more than anything, hurts.

Winston clutches his face in his hands, starting to pant noisily- He can feel his tongue running over his protruding teeth, and he hates it, hates that he’s a gorilla playing at being a scientist. He wants so desperately to make a difference, but he’s a fool for trying. He’s the punchline of the sad joke that’s his own existence.

He feels crushed- squashed and broken like he’d just stepped on a planet with too much gravity. Simultaneously, he feels like he’s spiralling out of control, like someone’s released the airlock and pushed him into the blackness of space.

He claws blindly with his paws for a handhold, bellowing for help and thrashing as he struggles to get back to the warmth of his home, his colony. He swears he can hear Winston calling to him- trying to encourage him- but the void sucks him back in. Blackness- failure, the crushing weight of being a _fraud_ \- envelopes his body and consumes him. With the last scrap of breath, before he’s completely covered, he cries out for help.

But when you’re in space, no one can hear you scream.

-

Her particle cannon starts feeling heavier in her grip- sweat slicks her palms and Zarya has to work harder at lifting it.

But Zarya is not weak. She will not falter when she has her team- her family- to protect. She shields herself, brows drawn tightly together, as something cold and snakelike twists her guts and seeps poison into her mind. She fights- oh, how she fights- but this is not something she can arm wrestle or tackle or beat into the ground. It’s one place where there’s a war raging that she has no chance of winning.

It's in her  _head._

And now, all she can think about is home- and the family she left behind. The family and home she left to the omnics.

Rage pulses through her skin, like a chaotic tear- anger seeps out of every pore, until she swears she can see only red. She doesn’t notice when the shield comes down, barely notices the sting of gunfire, until someone on her team yowls in horror at her appearance.

Zarya is so _angry._

Helpless. She can’t make a difference here. She should be at home, helping her family, not here, doing drills and making mistakes. She has no way to vent the anger, no way to channel this lust for destruction and sheer _frustration_ at her inability to help those she left back in Russia. It was a mistake to leave them, to join Overwatch, when everything they did here was  _pointless, pointless, pointless._ She'd be better off pursuing her lifting career than doing nothing on the Overwatch base.

When someone comes to help her, she shoves them aside and limps off on her own, mind burning with visions of robot gore, and _revenge_ against what the bastard machines have done to her and her family.

She’s going home. She’s going home _right now._

And nothing is going to get in her way.


End file.
